


love at first sight's for suckers

by fangirl6202



Series: ain't it a fine life? [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Brooklyn Newsies - Freeform, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, Strangers to Friends, i love them both so much, race is a nervous idiot, spot is a softie, we see Winnie again how lovely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 00:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17519129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl6202/pseuds/fangirl6202
Summary: He knew it was a bad idea, so bad that only someone who was corned could come up with it, but the sun was already setting as he made his way ‘cross the bridge. Fighting down his fear, Race held his lit cigar as he walked into Spot Conlon’s terf.-----Things haven't been going so well in 'Hattan, and Race doesn't have a choice. Everyone knows to steer clear of Brooklyn, home to the famous Spot Conlon. But desperate times call for desperate measures.





	love at first sight's for suckers

Though he was shivering out of his skin, Racetrack kept his head up as three burly Brooklyn boys lead him through the dark streets he knew but barely remembered.

Before.... before the incident, Race had worked a fair nuff amount of jobs. When it happened, he worked as a newsie in Brooklyn for a whole year before making the run to ‘Hattan and he hadn’t looked back, not till now. Now every street corner in Manhattan was filled with boys and girls hocking the morning and evening pape. He was glad these kids were off the streets, he was, but it didn’t make his job any easier. In fact, it made him harder. He couldn’t kid himself any longer, he just didn’t look small. And smaller sold more papers. Even though it was nearing a year ago, the most money Race ever got was when he partnered with Laces. Now, he counted it a miracle to get rid of 50 papes by lunch time.

His last resort was Brooklyn.

He made his way out just after dinner, telling Jack he was going over to Sheepshead and would stay the night with a friend. Why Jack believed the friend bit was beyond him, but it wasn’t a lie.

Not a complete lie.

He knew it was a bad idea, so bad that only someone who was corned could come up with it, but the sun was already setting as he made his way ‘cross the bridge. Fighting down his fear, he held his lit cigar as he walked into Spot Conlon’s terf. Any wrong move could start a war, one Jack would be too stubborn to stand down from, but Race was just desperate enough to risk it.. After walking around for a half-hour, he found a group of newsies, laughing in an alleyway behind a small deli. They were all the same height as him, but all tanner and with more muscle on them then Race could ever hope for. Probably worked in docks like most Brooklyn kids.

He whistled, the sound grabbing their attention. They all drew up to their height, now towering as Race mosied his way over, faking nonchalance.

“We’s already told ya,” The biggest one said, gritting his teeth. “We ain’t past soaking Queens dead.”

He made a note in his mind that Brooklyn was having trouble with Queens. It was good information for Jack to have.

“I ain’t from Queens,” Race said. “I’s here to talk to Spot Conlon.”

The three exchanged a look. “What for?”

“That’s for me to know and Spot to find out.”

He knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

They all stepped up to Race, forcing him look up at them. “Why don’t you shut your bone box, huh? Before I give you a shiner”

 _Damn. Well, here goes_ _nothing._

“Go ahead,” he said, carefully dangling his cigar from his lips. “Lucky for me, we over in ‘Hattan’s got a good running with our neighbors, Queens. They’d come running if Cowboy said the word, specially if you soak one of his boys.”

“Step back, Rabbit,” one of the other boys said, holding the other by his shoulder. Race had to hold in his laughter. _Rabbit?_ Oh, the poor chum. “We don’t want problem with Manhattan.”

“And we don’t trouble with Brooklyn,” he replied, smiling at the group. “So, how’s ‘bout one of you fellas take me to Spot, yeah?”

 

\-----

 

Race walked in silence, jaw dropping slightly as he was led into the grand building he once called home. The building seemed... _bigger_ now, if that was even possible. Memories of him racing up and down the stairs, playing cards in the bunk room, singing in the washroom for a few extra cents rushed into his mind. His breath hitched and his step faltered as they suddenly overtook him.The boys turned back to look at him, but he waved off the looks they gave him. He’d deal with his memories later.

As they walked up multiple stairs, conversations dropped as it seemed every newsie in Brooklyn stopped to gawk at him. He remembered when the leaders of Queens would drop by, how it seemed everyone wouldn’t speak until the makeshift office door was firmly closed.

 

He never thought he’d be on the receiving end of those cold glares

 

Walking up even more stairs, he took to looking around, never once being up in this particular area of the lodging house when Mouse held up a hand.“Wait here,” he growled, walking to the end of the hallway with the rest of his cronies. They disappeared into a doorway, and Race caught a glimpse of a desk and what looked like a bunk bed before the door was closed. Huh. So Spot Conlon had his _own_ penthouse, though a bit more luxurious than Jack’s he was sure. Being the King of Brooklyn sure had it’s perks.

After a few minutes of hearing muffled voices, the door opened again and his escorts walked out. “He’s ready for you.” and shouldered past him.

Race took a steadying breath. If anything went wrong, he could very well be starting a terf war, but he _had_ to.

_Ti prego, fa che funzioni._

Rolling his shoulders back, he forced his feet to move until he was in the doorway of King Conlon’s room. “You might as well step in,” a familiar voice called out to Race’s confusion.

_Winnie?_

Walking in, he was greeted by the familiar face of a gal he hadn’t seen in months. Eyes widening, he saw Miss Winnie Spence standing in front of him in trousers and suspenders, her hair twisted under a cap. She hadn’t changed much _physically_ , but at the same time... this wasn’t the same girl he rescued a year ago. This was a confident young woman, capable of soaking any man who looked at her twice. One who was capable of surviving in Brooklyn.

“What does Manh-- _Race!_ ”

Before he was able to fully comprehend what was going on, he was nearly tackled to the ground as Winnie threw herself at him.  “Woah!” He exclaimed, hugging her back and having to balance himself so they wouldn’t fall. “Look at you! When the hell did you make your way past the bridge?!”

She grinned up at him and _wow_ he had missed her smile. “Just after I left you’s over in ‘Hattan.”

Just a week after Laces had been taken away in a small coffin, Miss Winnie Spence appeared back at the Lodge, only this time she stayed. It took less than a week for her to grow accustomed to the life of a newsie, learning quickly how to hock the pape with the little schooling she had. She and Race had grown closer in the months she lived in Manhattan, before leaving once again. Said the rest of her family were leaving ‘Hattan, but she didn’t know where to. It was a bittersweet goodbye between the two of them, and he couldn’t believe she was standing in front of him now. Before Race could continue his interrogation or respond to Winnie, a throat was cleared and he looked up to meet the eyes of the boy sitting on the bed.

 

Spot Conlon.

 

Sure, Racetrack had seen him in Miss Medda’s theatre during the strike, but he had been all the way in the balcony, barely able to make out all the figures below. He wished now he could go back to that day, just to see what everyone else saw; a leader rallying his troops. And rally he did. Spot Conlon brought 2,000 kids to from all over Brooklyn to help ‘Hattan’s cause, something that made Race respect him without even meeting him. Ever since the strike, Spot had been a constant topic in the Lodge, rumours springing up all the time; Specs swore that someone in Queens saw him soak eight boys at once; Elmer said he was taller than even _Davey_ ; Finch said he was such a good shot with his slingshot, he could shoot 20 bottles in a row a mile away; Boots said someone in Queens swore Spot was a fairy, that over half of the boys in  Brooklyn were. Race was a bit more interested in that last one. With all the tales of grandeur circling around, Race got a pretty good image of who Spot Conlon was. But with all those stories, all of those legends, _nothing_ Race could have conjured up would compare to the boy sitting in front of him.

 

_Lui è bello_

 

Dark brown eyes stared back at Race, seemingly gazing into his soul, though glaring seemed the better word. But even the angry expression on the boy’s face couldn’t mask his attractiveness. A strong jawline, brown tousled hair, and a speck of dirt ever-so present on his cheek. His shirt was an almost angry red, vertical black stripes making their way through. His suspenders were off his shoulders, instead pooling onto the bed, and Race’s breath hitched as he noticed just how muscled his arms were. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed the boy was tanner than Race could ever hope to be. Most Brooklyn boys were, since they almost all worked down at the docks. He couldn’t have been older than 16, maybe 17, but there was no doubt in Race’s mind that this kid became leader by challenge and would stay leader until he  damn well chose to step down. Hell, just the fact that he looked capable of carrying 100 papes and a person all at once made it clear he wasn’t one to challenge. And now all that was piled up into one look of anger, glaring at Race.

 

“Sorry, Spot,” Winnie said, stepping back but keeping her hand on Race’s shoulder. He rolled his eyes at that, seeing as how she was nearly half a head shorter than him, but quickly stopped as he saw Spot’s eyes narrow. He had to remember he was still on dangerous ground. “Spot, this is Racetrack.”

“Racetrack?” He repeated, brows furrowing as he scanned Race up and down. He’d would be lying if a chill didn’t run up his spine. “You’s Jack’s second-in-command, ain’t you?”

Race nodded.

Suddenly, a look of fury passed Conlon’s face. “And why is the second-in-command of ‘Hattan doing in Brooklyn without Cowboy sending any word in advance? These is grounds for war, Racetrack” Spot growled out, and Race could see how this _boy_ managed to run all of Brooklyn. An ironfist. No room for errors.

That was going to make this a _lot_ harder.

 

“Because...Jack don’t know I’m here.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

_“What?”_

 

“Jack don’t know I’m here,” Race repeated, panic starting to settle in. “No one in ‘Hattan does.”

Spot stared at Race, angry expression dissolving into one of plain curiosity. Race couldn’t help but notice that it made him look younger, maybe even happier. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Spot moved his glance to Winnie.

“Soaker, I’s think it best you leave. I’ll handle this.”

She looked as if she wanted to hesitate, but in the end Winnie just nodded and gave Race’s shoulder a light squeeze. “ _Soaker?_ ” He mouthed at her, to which she just smiled like the delicate flower he knew she wasn’t and tipped her hat at Spot before stepping out of the door frame with a small “goodnight.”

Now he was all alone with the most feared newsie in New York, with no one knowing where he was. He wished he still believed in God, because he needed all the divine help he could get.

“What the hells is you thinking?” Spot snapped, his famous temper rearing it’s head. “If Jack thinks for even a _second_ that you’se in Brooklyn against your own will, what do you think will happen? _War,_ Racetrack, war. So you’se got five seconds to tell me why the hell you here before I kick you halfway to Queens.”

“I...I came to ask a question.”

“A _question?_ You crossed the bridge _at night_ to ask a _question_?”

Race inwardly cried, outwardly shrugging. It was a reckless thing to do, he knew. He grabbed at his cigar, but one look from Spot told him that wasn’t a good idea. “Please. Just let me explain.”

The other didn’t respond, only crossed his arms across his chest and nodded sharply.

“Ever since the strike, we in ‘Hattan been taking in more guttersnipes off the street. Lots of ‘em from the Refuge after we shut ‘em down. Manhattan’s big, yeah, but we’s can only take so many youngins. Lately, it’s gotten hard to sell our papes what with so many kids on every street. If Pulitzer wasn’ buying ‘em, we’d all be penniless.” If Jack knew he was relaying this message to _Spot Conlon_ of all people, he’d go mental. But he had to. “Then I remembered… about Sheepshead.”

That got Spot’s attention.

“What’s Sheepshead got to do with any of this?” He asked, though Race could tell he knew where this was going. Nothing happened in Brooklyn that Spot wasn’t aware of.

“I go there sometimes, days I don’t sell. I ain’t ever seen no newsie there, ever.”

It was true. Race had been going to the races ever since he was eight and only once had he seen someone selling the paper. It was surprising, since so many people passed through every day on their way to and from the races. A lot of money to be made. The idea  had come to him earlier that week, but he was only know able to act on it. He hadn’t been able to shake Jack all week.

“What _exactly_ are you asking, Racetrack?”

He held his breath. If this went badly, his body would be pulled out of the Hudson just in time for the evening pape.

“Let me sell at Sheepshead?” He breathed out quickly. Knowing it was too much to ask, he rapidly continued. “I won’t buy from your wagons, I won’t bother any of your boys, I’ll make the trek from Hattan over here. _Please._ ”

For a moment, a _horrifying_ and long moment, Spot Conlon didn’t speak. Only sat on his bed, looking up at Race with a look of anger and something else he couldn’t place. He was worried he did the wrong thing. It was a bad idea to come to Brooklyn in the first place, oh God, what was he thinki--

 

“Okay.”

 

“O-Okay?” Race stammered, eyes widening in realization.

“Yes, Racetrack, I’s said ok.” Spot said, standing up. Race was too shocked at his agreement that he didn’t even react to just how _short_ Spot was. It wasn’t obvious when he was sitting, but now that he was standing, Conlon barely made it past Race’s shoulder. Maybe that was where he got the name. Spot walked over to him until they were less than a feet apart, looking up at Race but somehow making Race feel smaller. “You got moxie. Not many fellas is brave enough to cross into my terf to ask for a selling spot. You’s the first. Sheepshead ain’t never had a newsie and I don’t see the harm in it. Long as you play by my rules, you can have Sheepshead.”

Suddenly, a laugh rose out of Race, bubbling to the surface. He was so relieved that he didn’t notice the rush of color to the younger boy’s cheeks at the sound. “ _Thank you,_ Spot. I promise you’se won’t regret it!”

“I...I  hope not. Now, come on over here. You can make it back to ‘Hattan in the morning.”

Race’s heart stopped for a second. “W-What?”

When he had finally convinced himself to go to Brooklyn that day, he wasn’t sure how he was going to get back to Manhattan, had just thought of holing up in one of the several abandoned buildings in the city. It wasn’t a strong plan, but it had seemed more plausible than staying at the Brooklyn Lodge.

Spot looked at him as if he was a loon. “Ain’t no way you crossing the bridge this late. If I don’t let my boys do it, I sure as hell ain’t letting you either Racetrack... even if you is stupid enough to cross it in the first place. S’too late to send you to the bunkroom, so you can sleep in here. Just for tonight. Take the top bunk.”

There was a finality to his voice that told Race there was no arguing.

“Uh, ok.” He settled for, not trusting himself to _not_ sound like a fool. “Thank you.”

Spot grunted. “Soaker’d never let me hear the end of it if I sent you ‘cross the bridge this late..”

He turned, bringing himself up to reach for the top bunk, removing things and placing them onto the floor. Race had to look away, for his own sake, when his trousers swung low on his hips. When he was able to focus again, which took a second, he realized what Spot had said. Race snorted, but stopped as the boy glared at him before going back to his task.

“Just hows do you know her, huh? She seemed awful _friendly_ with ya earlier..”

The words were said simply enough, but Race didn’t miss the underlying current. The one of a protective… something. One that said he’d soak Race if there was anything he didn’t like in his story. Race wondered briefly how Winn-- _Soaker_ got close to Spot Conlon of all people so quickly.

He sat down on the lone chair in the room, reaching for his shoelaces to keep himself occupied. “She, uh, was my friend. Back in ‘Hattan. Don’t know how much know about her life before coming her, but I was the one who got her off the street. Got her a home in Manhattan.” It was just enough to give Spot an honest response without telling him anything too personal. Turned out, he didn’t need to.

Spot froze, slowly turning to face him. “You...you’se the fella that saved her being raped.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Apparently they were closer than Race had taken.

“I...I was, yeah.”

Race could believe a lot of things; Santa Claus, he believed in for a year; Tooth fairy, till he was eleven. But even Race had his limits. If someone told him last year that Spot Conlon, almighty King of Brooklyn, would kneel in front of him, he’d ‘ave soaked ‘em.

Yet that’s what happened. Race watched, mesmerized, as Spot made his way towards him. He crouched down, looking upwards at Race. He then noticed the circular marks that littered his shoulders and felt anger rise up in his stomach. Every newsie had scars, even Race had one on his abdomen, but the ones Spot carried didn’t come from hocking papes. They’s were cigar burns. He counted seven just in what he was able to make out, some fader than others. No, those came from a parent. A bad one. Before he could rile hisself up, he noticed then that Spot’s eyes were brown indeed, but with specks of gold in them. He could stare into those eyes forever and never get tired of it. He wished he _could._

Race was jolted out of his thoughts as a calloused hand was placed on top of his own, and he looked down to see Spot’s hand placed on top of his own. He was surprisingly gentle, a word Race never would have thought to use for the borough leader, as he squeezed his hand. Race didn’t miss the hesitation on Spot’s face, letting his mouth fall open a few times as he struggled to get words out.

 

“T-Thank you... You’se have my respect, Racetrack.”

 

Without another word, Spot got up and walked over to a wall and turned off the lamp illuminating the room.

That was… unexpected. Then the seriousness settled in. A man’s respect had to be worked for, and once gained, you’se was honored. And now Spot respected him? _Spot Conlon?_ He could tell that Spot’s respect didn’t come easily, and what for? Not to say rescuing Soaker was nothing, but it almost was. Race would have jumped in for any girl in the same situation. He didn’t know why, but having Spot’s respect was almost _daunting,_ as if it was a task or title he had to maintain. He wished he could dwell on his thoughts, but Spot was already readying himself for sleep.

In the dark, Race watched Spot’s silhouette as he tugged off his shirts and suspenders, already missing the contact between them. He shouldn’t have been watching, but there was something about the way Spot moved, lithely, that just enthralled Race. Before anymore garments were taken off, Race looked away. _Whatever_ it was that he was feeling would pass, he was sure. Just a fleeting fascination he was sure. It _had_ to be. Having a… _liking_ for the king of Brooklyn? He’d get killed.

Hesitantly, he removed his own clothing, leaving them stacked next to a small desk, hearing the creak of the bed behind him as Spot laid down in the bottom bunk. He silently crept to the bed, hoisting himself  up without making too much noise. He hadn’t noticed there was a window right next to the bed and found himself face-to-face of Brooklyn at night, streetlights littering the tracks underneath them. It was beautiful. Now he could see why Jack and Crutchie slept on the roof.

“Sleep well, Racetrack.” Spot called from below him, and Race answered with a quick thank you, listening as Spot’s breathing steadied as the boy drifted off to sleep.  Fixated on the city below him, Antonio fell asleep, hopeful for the first time in weeks. He’d get through this, he always did.

 

But maybe… maybe now he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> “ So bad that only someone who was corned could come up with it” - So bad that only someone drunk could come up with it.
> 
> “Why don’t you shut your bone box, huh? Before I give you a shiner” - Why don’t you shut your mouth? Before I give you a black eye
> 
> “Ti prego, fa che funzioni.” - Please let this work
> 
> “Lui è bello” - He’s handsome
> 
> \-----
> 
> Y'all asked for more Winnie and I am d e l i v e r i n g. 
> 
> I also stared at photo of Tommy Bracco for like 20 minutes bc I am total and utter crap at describing people and also bc he's just so nice to look at
> 
> Anyways, comment away!! I love reading comments! Thanks for reading lovebuns :)


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